


White Wolf

by buggy_writes



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot, Squirting, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, geralt is a sweetie, if that helps, mahandling, sorry mom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27460390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buggy_writes/pseuds/buggy_writes
Summary: Lucky for you, you never were one to listen to your elders.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 212





	White Wolf

Growing up, you heard stories about the White Wolf. A man so fierce he could kill you with a dull blade in one swoop, rip your heart out as easily as he could pull apart fresh bread. Mothers, fathers, guards, anyone who could get you to listen- they all warned you of the man with golden eyes.

Then, years passed, you grew, found a job at an Inn run by an old friend of your mother's. It was easy; serve shitty ale and somewhat decent food, keep patrons from getting too rowdy in way of a broom to the shins.

But of course, you should know that things would change when the Butcher of Blaviken graces your town with his presence. He watches all night as you smack hungry hands away from men who would do you harm, all it takes is one sneer from him and he's marked you, no other man dares to let his eye linger on the way your bust protrudes from your corset.

Late, too late for anyone to still be awake, you go to his room and test the door; unlocked. Still in your work clothes, you step inside and press the door shut behind you, gasping faintly when a hand is pressed into your throat.

"Bold of you to try and sneak up on a Witcher." He states, looking over you.

"Bold of you to leave your door open in a tavern like this, Wolf." His eyes snap to yours at the name, a twitch of his nose and you know you've got him. "I wanted... to thank you. You helped me tonight, defended me when you didn't have to. Only fair I give you something for your troubles, and I'm not a rich woman, so..."

He's on you after a brief staring match, a test to see when if you'd run from him. Lips pressed, hot and wet against your jaw, neck, chest-

"I've not taken a man like you before..." he pauses, steps back, he won't be your first, you deserve better, but you press on, "I've had boys, in empty stalls of stables, in back alleys with not enough lighting... but I've never been done properly, Geralt of Rivia." He considers you carefully, seeing you differently now. You know what you want. He is willing to provide.

He takes his time undressing you, savoring each pull of lace and inch of flesh revealed to him. When he spreads you out beneath him, an obvious tent in his own leather trousers, he places his hands on your hips, "If you've not had a man, I need to... prepare you." The way he says it sends a shiver down your body, settling hot and heavy in your core.

And prepare you he does. He spends at least an hour mouthing at you, pressing his tongue where no boy has ever tasted you, sucking and lapping like a man starved. Then, he uses his hands. Thick fingers pressing into you, making you whimper and grip his wrist, he goes slow, but again he brings you beyond the edge, makes you shout his name with three fingers tucked inside you, and then he pulls away.   
He's up and moving, watching you lay and pant as he strips himself.

He sits with his back to the wall the bed is against and easily-- to easily, you're not used to being pushed and pulled in the bedroom, the thick of your thighs are parted over his hips, your head against his chest, he kisses the crown of your head before lining up, "Take what you can, pet, pleasure yourself."

Slowly, you take him. You rock gently, rising up more than once just to resettle in his lap, and by the time you meet his gaze, you have bruises forming on the second dip of your hips. His eyes are glowing, the shine of the moon making him look more predator than man and it reminds you who he is. What he is.

He rocks up once, twice and you're moaning his name like a prayer, leaning back on your hands and letting your head fall back. His hand, gentle on your skin, trails up the expanse of your stomach, between the valley of your breasts, and settles on your neck. It's a move so slight you wouldn't register it if it weren't for the way his cock twitches inside you-- his hand is around your throat, the smallest amount of pressure at his fingertips. You know he could steal your breath if he truly wanted.

"Geralt-" You swallow thickly, watching him as he stills and looks to you. "I want you to fuck me." 

He moves so fast you can't even process it- you're on your knees, face buried into the sheets and rear end warmed only by the hips pressing against you. Hands pinned at the small of your back, he uses them for leverage, pulling you back onto him at every snap of his hips.

Any breath left in your lungs is pushed out. You're left gasping and panting, moaning his name brokenly because it is the only word you can remember right now, with his cock pushing into you further than any stable boy had been able to. He pulls you back onto him, sheathing himself fully, and then moans, low and deep. The vibration travels all the way to your core, up to your brain and knocks any sense you had away.

You babble. You cry and before and plead for more, for less, for pleasure, for release-- none of the words make sense, but he understands each one. Gently, he pulls your back to his chest and wraps one hand around your neck, the other sliding around your hip and petting gently at your clit.

"Do you want to come again? You want to release on my cock, pet?" He growls in your ear, prompting a whine and a nod. He slows to a grind, rolling his hips up against the plush of your rear, pinches slightly at your clit, and you break. Tense, earth-shattering, mind-numbing, full-bodied pleasure overcomes you. When you come to, your thighs are sticky and wet.

You're in his lap, still seated on his cock, but he's pressing small kisses against the thin skin of your neck.

"I..." You try, but words are not your friend right now.

"Shh, you need rest, petal. I'll draw a bath, get us cleaned up, alright? Will you be okay for a few minutes?"

You whine, low in your throat, "Sticky..."

He chuckles, laying you on a dry patch of bedding and standing. "You were good, little one. It's not often I experience a woman squirt..." With that, he turns to draw a bath.

Gods, you were glad you never listened to those warning about the White Wolf.


End file.
